The Emperor Speaks
In the morning newscast on August 15, the Japanese people were told that the Emperor himself would speak to them at noon. It was an unprecedented break with tradition. Never before had the Emperor talked personally to them. The people had never heard his voice.
As the sun rose to the mid-point, in schools, factories, private homes and military bases, everyone gathered around radios or loudspeakers. Very few had an inkling of what they were about to hear.
At Oppama Airfield southwest of Tokyo, air force personnel lined the runways. Standing at attention among them was Saburo Sakai, whose distinction as Japan’s greatest fighter pilot went back to the early days of the war when he and his comrades ruled the skies as far south as New Guinea. Now, across the airfield, smoke rose from a trash fire where papers were being burned to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy.
At Oita Airfield, Admiral Ugaki was dressing in his cave. All morning long his fellow officers had tried to dissuade him from flying the last kamikaze mission. He had said to a close friend, “This is my last chance to die like a warrior. I must be permitted that chance.” His radio too was turned on as noon approached.
On the other side of Kyushu, in Nagasaki’s Urakami Valley, a few radios still functioned. In a schoolyard a crowd was grouped within range of one loudspeaker. Not far from them, corpses still lay about, blackened and ballooning up grotesquely in the heat. Thousands of flies feasted on the remains. The stench was intolerable. Daily more of the original survivors were dying from the invisible work of radiation.
At one minute before twelve o’clock, radios everywhere blared the final strains of “Kimagayo,” the Japanese national anthem. Then an announcer stated that the next speaker would be the Emperor of Japan. All traffic stopped. Most subjects bowed their heads. An unnatural hush invaded the cities and villages.
“To our good and loyal subjects,” the Emperor began. “After pondering deeply the general trends of the world, and the actual conditions obtaining in our Empire today, we have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure.” The voice was high-pitched, thin and reedy, quavering slightly as though under strain. “We have ordered our Government to communicate to the Governments of the United States, Great Britain, China, and the Soviet Union that our Empire accepts the provisions of their Joint Declaration.”
The language was court Japanese—a stilted, archaic form strange to many of his listeners. Comprehension of his purpose was slow in coming as he next set about exonerating his country for the debacle of the war:
“To strive for the common prosperity and happiness of all nations as well as the security and well-being of our subjects is the solemn obligation which has been handed down by our Imperial Ancestors, and which we lay close to heart. Indeed, we declared war on America and Britain out of our sincere desire to ensure Japan’s self-preservation and the stabilization of Southeast Asia, it being far from our thought either to infringe upon the sovereignty of other nations or to embark upon territorial aggrandizement.
“But now the war has lasted nearly four years. Despite the best that has been done by everyone—the gallant fighting of military and naval forces, the diligence and assiduity of our servants of the State, and the devoted service of our one hundred million people, [and here, in dealing with the defeat of the military, the Emperor was delicate to an extreme] the war situation has developed not necessarily to Japan’s advantage, while the general trends of the world have all turned against her interest.” With this, he moved on to another topic:
“Moreover, the enemy has begun to employ a new and most cruel bomb, the power of which to do damage is indeed incalculable, taking the toll of many innocent lives. Should we continue to fight, it would not only result in an ultimate collapse and obliteration of the Japanese nation, but would also lead to the total extinction of human civilization. Such being the case, how are we to save the millions of our subjects, or to atone ourselves before the hallowed spirits of our Imperial Ancestors? This is the reason why we have ordered the acceptance of the provisions of the Joint Declaration of the Powers.”
Those who had not fully understood his opening statement now heard it confirmed. Around the radios, in the streets, people wept. Sobbing, their faces in their hands, they strained to hear the words of solace that followed.
“We cannot but express the deepest sense of regret to our Allied nations of East Asia, who have consistently cooperated with the Empire toward the emancipation of East Asia. The thought of those officers and men, as well as others who have fallen in the fields of battle, those who have died at their posts of duty, or those who have met with untimely death, and all their bereaved families, pains our heart night and day. The welfare of the wounded and the war-sufferers, and of those who have lost their homes and livelihood, are the objects of our profound solicitude. The hardships to which our nation is to be subjected hereafter will certainly be great. We are keenly aware of all ye, our subjects. However, it is according to the dictate of time and fate that we have resolved to pave the way for a grand peace for all the generations to come by enduring the unendurable and suffering what is insufferable.”
Having first justified, then commiserated, in conclusion Hirohito warned:
“… Beware most strictly of any outbursts of emotion which may engender needless complications, or any fraternal contention and strife which may create confusion, lead ye astray, and cause ye to lose the confidence of the world.… Unite your total strength to be devoted to the construction of the future. Cultivate the ways of rectitude; foster nobility of spirit; and work with resolution so ye may enhance the innate glory of the Imperial State and keep pace with the progress of the world.”
With this, the voice stopped.
The shock was felt in various degrees and various ways all over Japan. For the first time in twenty-six hundred years the Japanese people would bow to a conqueror. Some were stunned to a point of incredulity, particularly in outlying areas where there was difficult radio reception and less general ability to understand the Emperor’s unfamiliar mode of speech. In the cities too there was disbelief. In Sendai, for example, the people were so certain of continued fighting that they could not absorb the meaning of the broadcast. Two or even three days later, many there were still in doubt, and went about in a kind of dream that shielded them from the hard reality.
Others responded with immediate grief or fear. In Osaka, Mrs. Katsuko Oiyama recalled that she was so upset that she and her daughter “went right to bed and cried all day.” A child in Kobe remembered hearing at school that the Americans “would squeeze our throats and kill us and make holes in our ears and string wires through them.” She burst into tears of fright.
At Oppama Airfield, the solid ranks of airmen broke. Nearly all of the men were in tears.
The sobs of the people in the schoolyard crowd in Nagasaki were mingled with the noise of the many American planes still circling the stricken valley to photograph the phenomenon below.
In their grief and shock and fear, most civilians in Japan simply retreated into their homes to await the enemy. The military, however, were far from passive. In the hours after the Emperor’s speech, truckloads of drunken soldiers careened through the downtown section of Osaka, shouting that the war would go on. Bottles of liquor crashed onto the streets as they vented their frustrations at the world. Pedestrians merely watched them.
Hundreds of subjects congregated in front of the Imperial Palace that afternoon to pray and offer continued allegiance to the Divine Ruler. It was an orderly group, filled with sorrow. Scattered through the crowd were sobbing army officers who had come there with one purpose in mind. Pistol shots rang out and uniformed men toppled to the pavement. Nobody screamed or ran. People just moved away from the corpses and left the plaza in front of the palace.
Immediately following the Emperor’s broadcast, Suzuki’s cabinet resigned in a body. The old man had done the job he had been assigned to do. From April to August, he had ridden the mounting wave of tension that gripped Japan and had managed to maintain his balance despite several slips that had nearly ruined the precariously built foundations of peace. The venerable admiral had performed the most onerous task ever given to a Japanese, and thereby rescued his countrymen from complete annihilation. For this he had nearly died at the hands of fanatics. For this he would remain a hunted man for months, unable to sleep in his own bed, hounded from sanctuary to sanctuary, until finally, some time after the United States Army occupied his nation, the hunters tired of the chase.
The new Premier was of royal blood, an uncle of Hirohito. Prince Higashi-Kuni, whose behavior in his youth had scandalized the court, was not an ideal choice for the position, at least not in normal times. Considered by associates an arrogant man, he possessed limited talents, less than brilliant intellectual attainments. Nevertheless, he served one very important function in August of 1945. As a member of the ruling family, he was a direct link to the throne, a rallying point for the people, a deterrent to those who would continue resisting the Emperor’s proclamation. The new Premier was the figurehead who could control the population in the crucial days ahead.
Years earlier, well aware of the dangers involved in war with the West, Higashi-Kuni had tried to impress upon his military friends the rashness of Japanese aggression. Posted to the Army as a general, he had violently opposed the coming crisis with the United States. When the disaster of total war engulfed the nation, he resigned himself to inevitable defeat. Finally, as it came, the Prince stepped forward willingly when Hirohito asked for help. He took up Suzuki’s title and set about restoring a measure of calm to a troubled nation.
At Fukuoka, scene of the massacre of American fliers only four days before, officers at Western Army Headquarters listened to the Emperor’s broadcast and then made plans for the afternoon.
A meeting was held and an order read: “There will be an execution of enemy fliers. The fliers are being executed because they are being held responsible for indiscriminate bombing …” The man who read the directive added, “The executions will be kept secret.”
One vital reason impelled the Japanese to act against the remaining B-29 crew members in detention at the headquarters. The Americans knew too much. They could testify that other POW’s had been alive a few days before the war ended but had suddenly disappeared from sight.
In the middle of the afternoon, another procession went down the road to Aburayama. In the back of a truck, sixteen American airmen sat surrounded by guards. None of the prisoners knew the war was over.
In the field where eight fellow prisoners had been slaughtered four days before, they were stripped and formed into a ragged line. The commander of the Japanese execution squad stood nearby with his girl friend, invited to watch the spectacle. When he shouted an order several of his men closed around the first victim. They took him into the woods at the edge of the field and fell upon the defenseless man with swords.
The brutal scene was repeated again and again on the dwindling group of captives, who were dragged individually or by twos and threes into the trees and cut into pieces. Unlike the previous “organized” deaths of fliers, this day of killing was an orgy, a frenzied destruction of human beings. Shouts of triumph rose from the throats of the excited Japanese, who ripped and slashed the prisoners in the secluded forest.
While crowds of happy people roamed the streets of New York, San Francisco and New Orleans, sixteen Americans were dumped into hastily dug pits across the Pacific at Aburayama. They were unrecognizable. The men who killed them went back to headquarters to burn any records pertaining to the whereabouts of the victims.
At Oita Airfield, the last kamikaze attack of the Pacific war was about to be launched. It was close to five o’clock in the afternoon. Admiral Matome Ugaki had listened carefully to the Emperor’s message. He had said goodbye to his associates in a brief ceremony where the traditional sake cups were drained by all. He had made his preparations for death. Finally he had stripped all insignia and braid from his uniform. Now he walked out of his hillside home toward the apron of the runway.
Captain Miyazaki, resigned to his superior’s decision, raced up to him and asked to go along on the mission. Ugaki rebuked him gruffly: “You have more than enough to attend to here. You must remain.” Miyazaki burst into tears. The admiral walked on.
When he reached the parking area, he was dumbfounded to see eleven naval fighter-bombers lined up ready for takeoff. Rear Admiral Tokiyushi Yokoi, Ugaki’s chief of staff, approached the group leader and asked him if the men intended to follow Ugaki to Okinawa. He said they did.
Ugaki was deeply moved. “Are you so willing to die with me?” Twenty-two right hands flashed into the air as his flyers saluted him. Visibly moved, the admiral went to the lead plane and signaled for takeoff. Eleven motors coughed and caught, then roared loudly over the flat terrain. Just as the first plane moved onto the runway, Ensign Endo, whose place Ugaki had usurped, vaulted onto the wing and squeezed into the rear seat beside the admiral. They smiled at each other as the aircraft moved down the field. One by one, the ten other ships revved their engines and moved off into the shimmering heat of the August afternoon. In moments, Oita was quiet. The waiting began.
Flying time to Okinawa was a little more than two hours. At twenty-four minutes past seven o’clock, the radio in the control tower at Oita airfield came to life. Ugaki delivered a final message to his men:
“I alone am to blame for our failure to defend the homeland and destroy the arrogant enemy. The valiant efforts of all officers and men of my command during the past six months have been greatly appreciated.…”
Static garbled most of the statement from here on. The last clear words reported that the planes were diving.
Ugaki and his men were never seen again. The United States Navy had no record whatsoever of any suicide attacks on its ships that day. Where the mission went, no one ever learned. Admiral Ugaki left only an epitaph and an unsolved mystery.
That afternoon, the body of General Anami, in full-dress uniform, was brought from his official residence to an office building on top of Ichigaya Hill. It was placed in a small room to lie in state between the corpses of Hatanaka and Shiizaki, which had been found in the pine forest near the palace. Fellow officers visited the three caskets and bowed in prayer. A stream of grieving soldiers shuffled through the room and cried bitterly.
At twilight Anami’s body was taken from the building. A straggling line of mourners followed the coffin bearers across the top of the hill and down a slope to a freshly dug hole. Over the hole an iron grating had been placed. The casket was laid upon it, and twigs and sticks were heaped over and under it. Cans of gasoline were poured over the wood.
In the soft light of the summer night, onlookers watched as a colonel struck a match and tossed it toward the corpse. With a whoosh, flames leaped up and out. The widow and five-year-old son of the general stumbled back from the pyre and stood staring. The soldiers saluted.
The cremation lasted into the darkness of August 15. The torch shone from Ichigaya Hill for hours and then dwindled.
When his wife and son moved away from the glowing pyre, they were followed by officers who would now turn to the painful duty of dismantling General Anami’s army.
Within hours after Emperor Hirohito’s broadcast the enemy contacted Tokyo. For the first time since December 7, 1941, the United States military spoke “in the clear” to the Government of Japan.
FROM: Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers
TO: The Japanese Emperor
The Japanese Imperial Government
The Japanese Imperial General Headquarters
ITEM [I] HAVE BEEN DESIGNATED AS THE SUPREME COMMANDER FOR THE ALLIED POWERS (THE UNITED STATES, THE REPUBLIC OF CHINA, THE UNITED KINGDOM AND THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS) AND EMPOWERED TO ARRANGE DIRECTLY WITH THE JAPANESE AUTHORITIES FOR THE CESSATION OF HOSTILITIES AT THE EARLIEST PRACTICABLE DATE.
IT IS DESIRED THAT ABLE [A] RADIO STATION IN THE TOKYO AREA BE OFFICIALLY DESIGNATED FOR CONTINUOUS USE IN HANDLING RADIO COMMUNICATIONS BETWEEN THIS HEADQUARTERS AND YOUR HEADQUARTERS. YOUR REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE SHOULD GIVE THE CALL SIGNS, FREQUENCIES AND STATION DESIGNATION. IT IS DESIRED THAT THE RADIO COMMUNICATION WITH MY HEADQUARTERS IN MANILA BE HANDLED IN ENGLISH TEXT. PENDING DESIGNATION BY YOU OF ABLE STATION IN THE TOKYO AREA FOR USE AS ABOVE INDICATED, STATION JIG NAN PETER [JNP] ON FREQUENCY ONE THREE SEVEN FOUR ZERO KILOCYCLES WILL BE USED FOR THIS PURPOSE. UPON RECEIPT OF THIS MESSAGE, ACKNOWLEDGE.
MacArthur